Parents? Dr. Nickerson asks. The EMT nods my way and Dr. Nickerson notices me for the first time. If she is surprised to find that Im there as a parent rather than an advocate for the child left in the locked van, she doesnt let on. Ellen... she begins, searching for my last name.
Moore, I croak. Ellen Moore.
Ellen, we need to take your daughter back now. Someone will be out to keep you updated with whats happening. And before I know it, Avery is being taken away from me. She is very still; her face is covered by an oxygen mask and an IV of some sort coming out of her knee.
I sink down into the nearest chair. Avery, I call after the doctors retreating back, my voice breaking. She keeps going, so I yell more loudly, Avery, her name is Avery. She looks back at me and nods, letting me know that she has heard me. She will call my daughter by her name as she pokes and prods her, trying to undo the damage that I have done.
A heavyset woman with a clipboard hovers nearby. Hon, she says. I have some paperwork for you to fill out. With a shaky hand I write down Averys name and birth date and am struck by the thought that the entirety of my daughters life only takes up two lines on a medical form. I take the paperwork to the window and hand it to the woman. When do you think Ill hear something? I ask, biting the corners of cheeks to stop from crying.
She shakes her head, her jowls bobbing with the movement. I dont know, hon. I wish she would stop calling me that. Ill check in with a nurse. She reaches out and touches my hand before I turn to walk away. Do you have someone to wait with you? Would you like for me to call someone?
No, thank you, I say coolly, pulling my hand away. The receptionist looks at me, first with bewilderment and then with suspicion. I know she thinks Im acting oddly for a parent whose daughter has been brought near death into the emergency room. She thinks that I am acting exactly the way the kind of woman who would leave her daughter in a boiling van would act. Inexplicably, my mind turns to James Olmstead. Did he act so strangely after Madalyn was found on the sidewalk? I brush the thought awayIm in social worker mode. Its a defense mechanism that Ive had to employ often in my line of work. I wouldnt have survived for very long if I didnt become clinical and detached. I want to explain this to the receptionist. I want to tell her that I will not be able to claw my way through this day if I dont hold my emotions at bay.
The emergency waiting room is surprisingly busy for a Tuesday morning. Individuals in various degrees of pain and misery surround me. There is an elderly woman knitting what appears to be a babys blanket, her knobbed fingers deftly moving, turning out a mosaic of pink, blue, yellow and green. There is a hunched young man carefully cradling his heavily bandaged hand, blood oozing through the gauze. One woman is crying, hiccuping loudly into her phone, pleading with someone on the other side of the line to please not drop her health-care insurance. A small boy of about three toddles over, alternating happily between eating a cracker and sipping juice from a sippy cup. With a smile he holds out a soggy, half-eaten cracker to me as an offering and I take it, pretending to nibble at the edges. His apologetic mother rushes over, sweeps him into her arms and moves to the other side of the waiting room.
A woman and her two children approach the receptionists window. One of my families. I always make a point to acknowledge my clients, but take their lead as to how much interaction we have when we happen to meet by chance. Today, I hope she doesnt notice me, hope that she doesnt want to talk about her children, the damage that has been inflicted upon them. But she turns, eyes scanning the waiting room, landing where I am sitting. I smile in her direction and she makes her way over to where I am and sits down across from me. An earache, she explains as she protectively pulls her four-year-old onto her lap and reaches out for her nine-year-old daughters hand.
Those are the worst, I reply, but we both know this is a lie. The worst was when your boyfriend molested your daughter while you were at work or, for me, when you leave your one-year-old to languish in an oven disguised as a minivan. Nine-year-old Destiny, painfully thin, averts her eyes, pulls away from her mother and busies herself with examining the fish tank in the corner of the room.
Excuse me, I say, standing and holding up my phone to let her know that I am not being rude, that I am not moving to avoid further conversation with her, but that I need to make a call. She nods and her attention returns to her four-year-old son, who is fighting back tears and pulling at his ear. She rubs his back in slow, gentle circles. A good mom with an evil boyfriend.
The phone in my hand pulses like a beating heart and I cant bring myself to answer it just yet. The display reads Love of My Life just as when I call Adam the display pops up as Soul Mate. An inside joke. Early in our marriage, before we had children, we argued over something inconsequential, who forgot to buy the milk or who was supposed to write the check for the cable bill. We didnt talk to each other for three long, excruciating days. I went about my business, stood a little taller, held my chin high and my back straight, as if this would strengthen my resolve in not being the first to speak. We had each tried to fill the silence of the house in our own way. Adam plugged earphones in and listened to music while I talked on the phone with my mother. I tried not to bring my mother into our arguments, but she was an excellent listener and would support me even if I was clearly in the wrong. Not making eye contact, Adam and I would pass each other in our tiny apartment, rap music leaking from his earphones intermingled with my mothers sympathetic chastising of my husbands insensitivity.
Adam broke first, he always did. It was the end of the third day and Adam was standing at the kitchen sink, eating a bowl of cereal. Youre lucky youre my soul mate, he said through a mouthful of Wheat Chex.
Youre lucky youre the love of my life, I countered. And it was over. Like the fight had never happened. From then on whenever we got angry or argued, those words would follow. Youre lucky youre my soul mate. Youre lucky youre the love of my life.
I lift the phone to my ear not to call my husband, not just yet. The phone rings and rings until it goes to voice mail. Mom, I say, finally surrendering to the tears that have been collecting behind my eyes. Something happened to Avery.
In her latest ripped-from-the-headlines tour de force, New York Times bestselling author Heather Gudenkauf shows how one small mistake can have life-altering consequences
Veteran social worker Ellen Moore has seen the worst side of humanitythe vilest acts one person can commit against another. She is a fiercely dedicated childrens advocate and a devoted mother and wife. But one blistering summer day, a simple moment of distraction will have repercussions that Ellen could never have imagined, threatening to shatter everything she holds dear, and trapping her between the gears of the system she works for.
Meanwhile, ten-year-old Jenny Briard has been living with her well-meaning but irresponsible father since her mother left them, sleeping on friends couches and moving in and out of cheap motels. When Jenny suddenly finds herself on her own, she is forced to survive with nothing but a few dollars and her street smarts. The last thing she wants is a social worker, but when Ellens and Jennys lives collide, little do they know just how much they can help one another.
A powerful and emotionally charged tale about motherhood and justice, Little Mercies is a searing portrait of the tenuous grasp we have on the things we love the most, and of the ties that unexpectedly bring us together.
Praise for Heather Gudenkauf
Brilliantly constructed, this will have you gripped until the last page
Closer
Deeply moving and lyricalit will haunt you all summer
Company
5 stars: Gripping and moving
Heat
Her technique is faultless, sparse and simple, and is a masterclass in how to construct a thriller A memorable readA technical triumph
Sunday Express
Its totally gripping
Marie Claire
Tension builds as family secrets tumble from the closet
Woman & Home
Set to become a book group staple
The Guardian
Deeply moving and exquisitely lyrical, this is a powerhouse of a debut novel.
Tess Gerritsen, No. 1 Sunday Times bestselling author
Fans of Jodi Picoult will devour this great thriller.
Red Magazine
Heart-pounding suspense and a compelling family drama come together to create a story you wont be able to put down. Youll stay up all night long reading. I did!
Diane Chamberlain, bestselling author of The Midwifes Confession
A great thriller, probably the kind of book a lot of people would choose to read on their sun loungers. It will appeal to fans of Jodi Picoult.
Radio Times
A real page-turner
Womans Own
HEATHER GUDENKAUF is the critically acclaimed and New York Times bestselling author of The Weight of Silence,These Things Hidden and One Breath Away. Her debut novel, The Weight of Silence, was picked for The TV Bookclub. She lives in Iowa with her family.
Read more about Heather and her novels at www.HeatherGudenkauf.com.
Also by Heather Gudenkauf
THE WEIGHT OF SILENCE
THESE THINGS HIDDEN
ONE BREATH AWAY
Little Mercies
Heather
Gudenkauf
For my brothers and sisters
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Praise for Heather Gudenkauf
About the Author
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28